Breakfast
5. Breakfast
A wonderful smell. The smell of soup.
Mom is making breakfast.
And soon, there will be the sound of heavy footsteps, and Dad will come to wake me up.
...No... that can't be.
Because both Dad and Mom are gone.
Shia slowly opened her eyes and spent a moment wondering where she was. Then, she realized the scenery around her was familiar. She was in the living room of her own home, and it seemed she had been sleeping on the sofa.
As she sat up, the garment draped over her slid off. It was a large piece of clothing, but it wasn't her father's. The scent was different.
It was the scent of a distant world carried by the wind—like a morning forest, or the sea she had seen before. She remembered smelling it yesterday as well.
But a delicious aroma mingled with it, and her stomach gave a loud growl.
Come to think of it, she hadn't eaten anything for several days.
The scent was wafting from the kitchen, and from that direction came the presence of a stranger. ...No, not a stranger; it was the scentless person she had clung to yesterday.
Suddenly, that presence moved, and a person peeked their face out from the kitchen.
"Ah, you're awake."
Hearing his voice, she instinctively searched for her robe, but it was nowhere nearby. Left with no choice, she pulled the garment from before over her head, but the ears she tried to hide popped right out through a gap in the fabric.
Since he had already seen her, there was no point in trying to hide herself or her ears now. Besides, this person had seen her clearly yesterday.
Still, without letting her guard down, Shia observed the man standing at the boundary between the kitchen and the living room.
He had white hair like her father and mother, but he looked considerably younger than both of them. Like her mother, he had long hair braided on one side, but he was obviously a man, and he seemed taller than her father.
As Shia stared at him in silence, he lowered his eyebrows in a troubled manner; his eyes were a pale grey and slightly narrowed. His expression, like his brows, showed only a sense of being at a loss; she didn't feel a single thing unpleasant from him.
And the strange thing was, she couldn't smell anything from this man.
Of course, he had ordinary smells. There was the scent of his clothes, the smell of washed hair, and since he surely sweated, those kinds of smells were there. She could even sense the scents coming from his emotions.
But it wasn't that. It was as if... he were the same as a stone on the roadside, the sofa Shia was currently sitting on, the glass in the window frame, or the frame itself.
He lacked the scent that all living things should possess.
It was the same as when her father and mother passed away.
Yet, no matter how she looked at him, the person before her was alive.
Yesterday, she had been exposed to so many strong emotions and scents that she had leaped toward him as a place of refuge, but thinking about it again, it really was mysterious.
Shia gave a small sniff and blinked. As she thought, the scent that should be there was missing.
Her curiosity about the unknown outweighed her caution.
Standing up from the sofa, Shia approached the bewildered man and grabbed his hand.
His hand jerked for a split second. However, he didn't shake her off, and after touching him up to the elbow to confirm, Shia whispered.
"It's... not cold..."
She could clearly feel his body heat. In fact, when she touched his wrist, she felt a steady thrumming pulse. Needless to say, he was definitely alive.
"...Uhm... I wonder what that means?"
Picking up on Shia's murmur, a voice that sounded puzzled yet still troubled answered from above her. Startled, Shia tried to pull away, but she tripped on the garment she was wearing and began to fall backward—but she didn't hit the floor, as a large hand supported her back.
"Whoops, you okay?"
"—I... I'm... okay..."
As she answered with a stutter, the man's pale grey eyes softened, and small wrinkles formed at the corners of his eyes. Then, he gently released his hand from her back.
Feeling her back suddenly grow cold as his body moved away, Shia instinctively reached out and grabbed the edge of the man's clothes. As if pleading with him not to leave.
"Ah..."
Rather than the person being grabbed, it was Shia who let out a surprised sound and quickly let go.
What was wrong with her? Her own actions had been a mystery for a while now. Grabbing his hand, grabbing his clothes, and then letting go immediately in surprise. It was nothing short of suspicious.
Fearfully, she looked up, wondering if he thought so too, and the man gave a soft smile and let out a small huff of breath.
"I've got a pot on the fire. Night has passed since then, and it's already morning. You must be hungry, right?"
Before Shia could answer the question, her stomach growled. The timing was terrible.
"Hehe, that's a very clear answer. Well then, go wash your face and come to the dining area. Let's eat."
The man spoke, and Shia, her ears flattening in awkwardness and embarrassment, gave a small nod.
When she peeked into the kitchen, where the sound of humming could be heard, the man noticed and turned around.
"It'll be ready in just a bit, so please sit and wait... though it's strange for me to say that, since this is your house. Well, it'll be ready shortly."
With that, the man turned his back, and after a moment of hesitation, Shia took her usual seat.
Before long, plates were lined up before her.
There was steaming soup, thick-cut bacon, a fried egg, and sliced bread spread with butter.
Before her mother passed away, she had been taught the basics of housekeeping. However, since Shia had felt a certain rebellion toward those lessons, she had never improved. When it came to meals, she usually had cheese, dried meat, or hardtack; as for warm food, it was usually just eggs she'd gathered from the coop and boiled. It had been since she used to eat with her mother that she had seen such a proper meal.
As she stared intently at the food arranged on the table, the man sat down in front of her with his own plate.
"Sorry for borrowing your plates and pots, but I'll make sure to wash them. —So, aren't you going to eat?"
Since he said that, it was clear this meal was unmistakably for Shia.
Shia looked from the man to the food on the table, then picked up a fork, whispered a short prayer, and began to eat.
Her caution toward the man had faded surprisingly quickly, and she didn't even notice that his gaze was fixed on her as she ate. Thus, it was only after she had finished a good portion of her meal and he asked, "Could I have a moment?" that she finally realized he was looking at her.
"May I ask your name?"
There was no reason for her to be troubled by being asked her name.
"...Shia."
"Shia?"
"......Yes."
"I see, Shia. I'm Tori. Tori Didier. You can just call me Tori."
"...Tori..."
Once more, she whispered "Tori" softly to herself. This was the first time she had called someone by their name or been called by her own by anyone other than her father and mother, and it made her feel restless.
Come to think of it, the people yesterday had called this man—Tori—by another name.
"...Sensei?"
"Eh, ah, uh..."
"Tori-sensei?"
"No! No, no, just Tori is fine!"
Startled by his panicked voice, Shia jerked her back straight, and he apologized in a hurried yet lowered voice.
"Ah, sorry, Shia. I didn't mean to scare you... No, uh, just calling me Tori is fine."
She hadn't been scared, merely surprised. And yet, instead of being afraid of Shia, this person was trying his best not to make her afraid.
With a restless and fluttering feeling in her heart, Shia swayed her tail back and forth and popped a berry, which Tori had given her for dessert, into her mouth.
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